


Trust Me to Love You

by nxghtwxng



Series: Navigating Life [4]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Super Sons (Comics), Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Angst, Breaking Up & Making Up, Canon-Typical Violence, Damian Wayne is Bad at Feelings, Established Relationship, Fluff, Idiots in Love, Jealousy, Jon is in college, M/M, the angst is the break up the fluff is the make up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:48:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26457448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nxghtwxng/pseuds/nxghtwxng
Summary: Damian’s hands curl into fists, nails digging into flesh. “Fine. Maybe I’m not as expressive with my affections as you’d like, but anything that happened before we started dating is just as much your fault as it is mine.Youwere the one who invitedmeto your apartment that night with the League. You were the one who started this whole mess.”Jon laughs humorlessly. “Mess?” he asks. He gestures between himself and Damian. “Is that what this is to you?”Or: Jon drags Damian to a stupid college party, and it somehow results in the two of them almost breaking up.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne, Jonathan Kent/Damian Wayne
Series: Navigating Life [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1845865
Comments: 72
Kudos: 486





	1. Just an Hour or Maybe More

**Author's Note:**

> You don’t need to read the previous installments of this series to understand this story, but if you would like more background on some of the events that are referenced in this story, I recommend you check out [Stay the Night](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25082845/chapters/60759358). (:

“No.”

_“C’mon, D. Please?”_

“No,” Damian repeats. Because there is no way– no _possible way–_ that he is going with Jon to a _frat party._

 _“Just hear me out,”_ Jon tries, his voice slightly distorted by the FaceTime call. It’s well past midnight, but Jon had been up late studying for an exam and had called Damian just as he was returning from patrol– to invite him to a goddamn _frat party._

Damian peels off his Robin mask and raises an unimpressed brow at the screen.

 _“Do you remember my friend Dylan?”_ Jon asks. _“Curly hair? Business major? He was at my twenty-first birthday.”_

Damian hums noncommittally. He does not remember Dylan, though. He’d been a bit distracted on Jon’s twenty-first birthday, what with Taylor Gettman spending the entirety of the night flirting with Jon with less subtlety than a car crash on the interstate. Taylor had even gone so far as to _kiss_ Jon– with Damian watching.

Things had more or less worked out in Damian’s favor, though. The next morning, Taylor had received an apologetic phone call from Jon, explaining that he had been not-quite-dating Damian when she had kissed him, and they had finally made things official that night.

That call had been awkward, to say the least. Taylor had thought Jon was straight, and learning that he now had a boyfriend had been a bit of a shock. Jon had never come out to her because, in his words, he thought it was obvious. (“I have a pride pin on my backpack, D!”) It hadn't been obvious to Taylor, though. Pride pin and all, it had gone right over her head.

Their phone call had ended with Jon and Taylor agreeing to remain friends, but they scarcely talk anymore. Damian would never say so to Jon, but he’s more than content with that.

 _“Anyways,”_ Jon presses, _“Dylan’s frat is throwing the party, and since it’s his twenty-first birthday this weekend, the frat party is going to double as a birthday party.”_

Damian sighs disinterestedly. He tosses his phone onto his bed, leaving Jon to ramble as he discards his Robin uniform and rummages through his dresser for sweats and a sweatshirt.

 _“It’s usually a lot harder for guys to get into frat parties than girls. The frat guys want more girls there, so they have more ‘options’ when it comes to hooking up.”_ Jon pauses, considering. _“It’s kind of messed up, but that’s just the way it is I guess.”_

Though Damian knows Jon can’t see him from where he’s trading his armor for his pajamas off-screen, he rolls his eyes. There’s a reason he had avoided parties and so-called “college culture” when he was an undergraduate. 

_“But since this is more or less Dylan’s party, he gets to invite whoever he wants,”_ Jon continues. _“He invited me and said I could bring you, so will you_ please _come with me?”_

Damian pulls a sweatshirt over his head, then makes his way back towards his bed, reaching for his phone. “I hate parties,” he tells Jon.

 _“Dami,”_ Jon pleads.

Damian sighs. He drops back onto his bed, mindful of where Alfred the Cat is curled at the foot. “Why do you want me there anyways? I’m not exactly a social person.”

 _“Because–”_ Jon starts, but he stops abruptly, tilting his head with a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. _“Hey, is that my Met U sweatshirt?”_ he asks. _“I’ve been looking for that.”_

Damian glances down and realizes that the sweatshirt he’s donned is, in fact, Jon’s Met U sweatshirt, which he may or may not have stolen the last time he was at Jon’s apartment. A slight blush dusts over his cheeks, tinging them pink. “I can return it to you the next time I’m in Metropolis,” Damian offers.

Jon shakes his head, his smile stretching into a grin. “Nah, keep it as long as you want. It looks good on you.”

“Shut up.”

Jon does so, but continues to grin at Damian through the screen.

Damian sighs. “So?” he prompts. “Why, exactly, do you want me at this inane social convention of yours?”

 _“Because I love you,”_ Jon says easily, with enough sincerity in his voice that Damian is half inclined to call him a sap. _“And we’ve been together six months now, and you still haven’t met most of my friends.”_

“I met your friends on your birthday,” Damian protests.

_“Yeah, but not all of them–”_

“How many friends do you _have?”_

_“–and not as my boyfriend. I really want you to meet everyone, D.”_

Damian wants to tell Jon that he’ll go to a frat party when hell freezes over, that he’d sooner return to Nanda Parbat and the League than he would mingle with intoxicated undergraduates.

But then Jon says, “Please, D? For me?”

And his eyes– those eyes that are so infuriatingly mesmerizing, that are quite literally an inhuman shade of blue, eyes that Damian could write an entire essay on if so desired– are so wide and pleading that Damian can feel his resolve slipping away faster than sand slips through an hourglass.

“Fine,” Damian relents. “I’ll go to the stupid party.” 

* * *

Damian hates parties, but Damian _really_ hates frat parties.

He walks up the driveway, and towards the front door of the frat house, trailing slightly behind Jon with his arms crossed over his chest. Jon looks back over his shoulder with a knowing smile. “Just an hour, I promise,” he says, extending a hand towards Damian. “Come on.”

Damian huffs, but takes Jon’s hand, tangling their fingers together. Jon’s smile turns to a grin, and he tugs Damian forward, so that he’s walking next to Jon, instead of behind him.

When they make it to the front porch, there are two boys– they couldn’t be older than nineteen, most likely freshman– standing in front of the door. 

“Hey, how’s it going?” the shorter of the two greets, blatantly eyeing Damian and Jon’s intertwined hands. Damian rolls his eyes. “You guys know a brother?”

“Yep,” Jon replies. “We’re friends with Dylan.”

“Names?” the taller one asks, pulling out his phone to check an honest to God _guest list._

“Jon Kent and Damian Wayne,” Jon answers easily, apparently unphased by how idiotic this all is.

There’s a momentary lull as the taller boy scrolls through his phone, during which a gaggle of girls in crop tops and skinny jeans approach the door, and are immediately waved inside by the shorter of the two boys. Damian, once again, rolls his eyes. He suspects he’ll be doing that a lot throughout the night.

“Alright, you guys are good to go in,” the taller boy finally says. He moves to open the door, ushering them inside. “Have fun.”

Of course, Jon, ever the polite farm boy, chirps, “Thanks!” before pulling Damian through the door and into the house.

As soon as he steps inside, Damian is assaulted by the unmistakable smell of cheap alcohol. The room is crowded with a ridiculous amount of people, all with beer cans or red solo cups clutched in their hands as they dance in a manner that borders on obscene. The music, which is more or less just heavy bass and intermittent beat drops, dominates the room, interrupted only by the occasional cheer from a far corner, where a Beer Pong table is set up.

“I see Dylan over by the bar,” Jon says, raising his voice to be heard over the too-loud music. “I’m gonna go wish him a happy birthday.”

“I’ll come with you,” Damian responds because there is _no way_ that he is letting Jon leave him _alone_ in a crowd of drunk, horny college kids.

Jon nods, and leads him through the crowd, towards the kitchen counter that has been converted into a makeshift bar. Leaning against the counter, chatting with the bartender– who is really just another member of the fraternity– is who Damian assumes is Dylan. The curly hair and round cheeks seem vaguely familiar.

“Hey, Dylan!” Jon shouts.

Dylan whips around, weak beer sloshing over the edges of his red solo cup at the sudden movement. As soon as he sees Jon, his face breaks into a crooked grin with far too much teeth. “Hey, Jonny! You made it!” he cries, pushing up from the counter and stumbling towards Jon with outstretched arms.

“Dude, how much have you had to drink? It’s only nine!” Jon laughs. He lets go of Damian’s hand to give Dylan a quick hug, slapping him on the back a few times before letting go.

“Man, I’ve been on my ass since noon,” Dylan replies, eyes wide and bleary. “Pros of having your twenty-first fall on a Saturday, right?”

Jon laughs again, and Damian finds himself wondering how Jon– someone so powerful, so _above_ these people who find fraternity parties and underage drinking to be suitable sources of fun– manages to not only tolerate, but _enjoy_ their company. 

“Oh, hey,” Jon says, and suddenly his arm is around Damian’s waist, pulling him close. “You remember my boyfriend, Damian, right?”

“Yeah! Totally!” Dylan cheers. “Glad you could make it, man!” 

Damian gives him a tight smile. “Thanks for the invite,” he says, though it physically pains him to do so. 

Damian’s disdain goes unnoticed by Dylan, who ushers Jon and Damian towards the back corner of the room, where a group of people are huddled, flirting with one another and laughing long and loud at jokes that are not nearly funny enough to warrant that response. They all seem to know Jon, grinning when they catch sight of him, and greeting him with fist bumps and clumsy hugs.

Damian decides on sight that he doesn’t like these people. They look like Greek Life personified. Half of the boys are dressed in Hawaiian shirts that hang open to show off barely-there abs. The others are dressed in either muscle tees or sports jerseys. Most of them have their arms wrapped around pretty girls with long hair and shiny make-up, hands dropping gradually closer to the backsides until they’re quite unsubtly groping at their asses.

 _Charming,_ Damian thinks contemptuously.

Jon introduces Damian to Chelsea from his Communications Theory class; Jacob, his freshman year roommate; Branden from his Econ study group; and another five or six people whose names Damian instantly forgets. Each time, Damian is introduced as _my boyfriend, Damian,_ and with the arm that Jon still has around his waist, he gets the distinct impression that Jon is _showing him off._

They end up standing in the corner of the room for almost an hour, Jon and his friends yapping about Dylan’s intoxicated birthday adventures, the latest Met U gossip, and anything else that sparks their interest. Damian remains quiet for the most part, though at one point he does get sucked into conversation with Chelsea from Communications Theory, who is apparently a big fan of the Wayne’s, and has a frankly disturbing crush on Richard.

Soon enough, though, the group begins to dissipate. One couple unabashedly disappears upstairs, Chelsea drags her friends with her to the bathroom, and Dylan drags his friends away to play Beer Pong. “Grab a drink and meet us over there!” he tells Jon as he ambles away.

Dylan disappears into the crowd, leaving Damian and Jon with another couple who have started to make-out against the wall. Damian leers at them disdainfully, then turns to face Jon. “I am not playing Beer Pong,” he clips.

Jon laughs. “Okay, no Beer Pong,” he agrees. “Are you okay with staying a little longer, though?”

Damian had agreed to be subjected to drunk undergrads and unpleasant music for a _single hour._ They’ve been there at least as long, and Damian is more than ready to leave. He’s about to tell Jon as much, when Jon’s hand drops from around his waist to grope at his ass.

Damian’s eyes go wide.

Jon is usually a _gentleman._ His hands _never_ travel below Damian’s belt unless they are _alone._ Here– in the living room of a fraternity house that is bursting at the seams with people, where Damian’s left side is pressed flush against Jon’s, but on his right, he's still standing shoulder to shoulder with a stranger because there’s simply not enough room to allow for more personal space– is the furthest from _alone_ that they could possibly be.

Damian remembers Jon’s twenty-first birthday, when Jon had gotten drunk for the first time, slinging an arm around Damian’s shoulders and claiming that personal space shouldn’t matter because _Dames, you’ve literally had my dick up your ass._

It was crude in a way that Jon never was, and Damian had chalked it up to the alcohol coursing through his veins and lowering his inhibitions. Now, though, he’s starting to wonder if this is simply how Jon _is_ when he’s around his Met U friends– a stereotypical college junior, who makes sex jokes and curses and gropes at his boyfriend’s ass simply because he can.

Jon dips his head, mouth hovering near Damian’s ear. “I promise I’ll make it up to you,” he says, voice low. He grabs at Damian’s ass once more to emphasize his point.

“Okay.” The word slips out without Damian’s approval, mind still reeling.

Jon plants a quick kiss on Damian’s cheek, and his hand disappears from around Damian’s waist. “You’re the best,” he chirps. “Since we’re staying, I’m gonna grab a drink. Do you want anything?”

Damian looks at him, a single brow raised. “I’m driving.”

Jon shrugs. “If you want to drink, I can drive. A couple beers aren’t going to do anything to me. Super tolerance, remember?” he says with a wink.

Damian pauses, contemplating. He drove his Bentley here– his two-hundred-thousand dollar Bentley. He trusts Jon with every fiber of his being, trusts Jon with his heart, with his _life._ But does he trust Jon to drive his _two-hundred-thousand dollar_ car?

But for whatever reason, he just agreed to stay at this _fraternity party_ for who knows how long, and alcohol would make the ordeal significantly easier to tolerate.

Damian makes a decision. “If you crash my Bentley,” he says, fishing his keys from his pocket and tossing them at Jon, “I will kill you.”

Jon only grins and stuffs the keys into his pockets. 

Jon spearheads their way through the crowd, and back towards the bar. The bartender from before, who looks to be around Jon’s age, with dark hair and a bandana tied around his head, is still there, but he’s been joined by another boy, this one with blonde hair and rosy cheeks. Across from him stands a girl that he is obviously flirting with, leaning across the counter with an almost charming smile. The girl pushes her hair, which is a shade of brown light enough it could pass from blonde, behind her ears.

Damian narrows his eyes. Even from the back, that girl seems familiar.

They reach the bar, and Jon approaches the dark-haired bartender, but Damian’s gaze remains on the girl. He must know her somehow– she seems too familiar to be a stranger– but Jon is the only person he knows who attends Met U. 

The girl turns slightly, and Damian is finally able to see her face. He recognizes her instantly, and suddenly regrets agreeing to stay at this stupid party.

“Here ya go,” Jon says, twisting to hand Damian a red solo cup. Damian immediately takes a swig, and Jon raises a brow. “You okay?” he asks tentatively. “You seem–”

“Oh my God! Jonny!”

Taylor Gettman clambers away from the counter, leaving the blonde bartender blinking in confusion. She beelines for Jon, slinging an arm around his shoulders and pulling him down to her height so that she can properly hug him. Damian watches with contempt as Jon returns her hug.

“I haven’t seen you in so long,” Taylor cries with palpable excitement. She’s quite obviously drunk.

“It really has been a while, huh?” Jon replies with a smile. Damian scowls and takes another sip of his drink.

Taylor raises a hand and rests it on Jon’s shoulder. “Gosh, I’ve really missed you, Jonny.”

“I’ve missed you too,” Jon says, and Damian decides that that’s enough of that. He clears his throat, loud and unsubtle, and Jon glances back over his shoulder at him. “Oh, Taylor, you remember Damian, right?” 

It doesn’t escape Damian’s notice that to every other person that Jon had introduced or reintroduced him to, he had been introduced as _my boyfriend, Damian._

Taylor blinks, smile fading somewhat. “Yeah. Nice to see you again, Damian,” she says with a small wave. Damian gives her a tight-lipped smile. 

Taylor ends up leading them back to the bar, where she introduces the blonde bartender as Nick. Even with Jon and Damian present, Nick continues to try and flirt with Taylor, but Taylor pays him little mind, preoccupied with Jon. It doesn’t take long for the conversation to become Jon and Taylor catching up, while Damian and Nick stand nearby, silently sipping at red solo cups.

As soon as Damian’s cup is empty, he heads for the other end of the counter, where the dark-haired bartender is filling solo cups from a keg and passing them to a waiting crowd. 

Damian shoves through to the front of the crowd. “Can I get a refill?” he asks, waving his cup impatiently. The bartender takes the cup without question.

As Damian is waiting for his refill, Nick approaches from behind the bar, shaking his head.

“Aw man. Struck out?” the dark-haired bartender asks with a small laugh.

Nick nods. “She’s into some other dude,” he says sullenly. “Hey,” he adds, catching sight of Damian. “You’re that dude’s friend, right?” He points over his shoulder at where Jon and Taylor are leaning against the counter, laughing. “Does he know you’re into her?”

Damian blinks. “What?”

“Taylor,” Nick clarifies. “You’re into her, right? You looked kinda pissed when they started flirting.”

Damian blinks again.

“Here,” Nick says, pulling two shot glasses, tackily adorned with Greek letters, and a bottle of cheap vodka from behind the counter. “Sympathy shot. We both struck out tonight.” He fills both shot glasses and nudges one towards Damian.

Damian downs the shot, but then tells Nick, “I’m not into Taylor.” Why Damian feels inclined to set the record straight, he isn’t sure. Maybe he just wants to bitch about Jon and Taylor.

Nick wrinkles his brow. “So what? You just pissed your friend low key ditched you?”

Damian resists the urge to roll his eyes and says, “He’s not my friend. He’s my boyfriend.”

Nick’s jaw drops and he stares at Damian, mouth agape. This time, Damian does allow himself to roll his eyes. 

Nick shakes his head, snapping himself out of his stupor. “Hold up, you’re telling me that dude is gay?” Without waiting for a response, he turns towards the dark-haired bartender and calls, “Yo, Danny! I might still have a chance! That dude she’s into is gay!”

“Bi,” Damian interjects.

Nick twists back around to look at him. “Huh?”

“Bi,” Damian repeats. “As in bisexual. He’s bisexual, not gay.”

Nick’s face falls, excitement dissipating. “Oh. Dammit,” he remarks, then tilts his head. “Wait, and you said that that dude is your boyfriend?”

“Yes.”

“And he’s still flirting with a hot chick? In front of you?”

“Yes.”

“Dude. Here, have another shot. That’s fucking rough.”

Twenty minutes later and Damian has taken enough shots that he’s stopped bothering to count, and has somehow befriended Nick and Danny, the bartending frat boys who apparently have nothing better to do than gulp down beer like it’s water, listen to Damian complain about Jon and Taylor, and offer terrible advice.

“Okay. Damian. Dude,” Nick says, leaning over the counter, towards Damian. “I think you gotta make him jealous. If your boyfriend is gonna flirt with a hot chick, then _you_ should flirt with a hot chick.”

“I’m gay,” Damian deadpans.

That does little to deter Nick. “Okay. New plan, then,” he amends. “You pretend to flirt with Danny.”

“What?” Danny cries. “Why me? Why not you?”

Nick makes a face at Danny. “Dude, his boyfriend already knows I’m straight. He was there when I was flirting with Taylor,” he explains.

“You could be bi,” Danny points out.

Nick waves a dismissive hand and takes a swig of his beer. “Semantics, man.”

Were Damian sober, he would undoubtedly be back to rolling his eyes at these idiot frat boys, but instead he only follows in Nick’s stead, taking a swig of beer before saying, “I’m not flirting with either of you.”

“Consider it?” Nick asks. 

“No.”

“Nick, your plan is stupid,” Danny interjects. Nick looks at him, aghast, but Danny ignores him, prattling on. “Damian should go flirt _with his boyfriend._ Show Taylor that he’s taken, and all that.”

“She knows we’re together,” Damian inputs. 

“Well, it looks like she needs a fucking reminder,” Danny says, looking over Damian’s shoulder. 

Damian follows his gaze to where Jon and Taylor are still chattering away. Taylor giggles at something Jon says, pushing her hair behind her ears, just as she had done when flirting with Nick earlier that night. Her hand then moves from her hair to squeeze at Jon’s upper arm, and Damian has officially had enough.

“Fuck it,” Damian mutters. He downs the rest of his beer, then pushes himself up from the counter and marches over to Jon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is so dialogue heavy, oh my.
> 
> I will love you forever if you drop a kudos or a comment!
> 
> Special thanks to my friend [IAmWhelmed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmWhelmed/pseuds/IAmWhelmed) for encouraging me to write this fic!
> 
> Hit me up on Tumblr: [nightwingbb](https://nightwingbb.tumblr.com/)


	2. Know Me Enough to Hurt Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damian and Jon fight about Taylor. Then it boils over to be about a whole lot more than just Taylor.

It’s no secret that Damian has never been big on PDA.

So long as it’s within reason, Damian doesn’t _mind_ PDA. He never protests when Jon kisses his cheek or interweaves his finger with Damian’s while in public. It’s just that _Damian_ is rarely the instigator.

So, when Damian marches towards Jon, slipping a possessive arm around his waist and pressing a lingering kiss to the underside of his jaw, Jon’s surprise is more than justified.

“Hey,” Jon murmurs. His voice is laced with tepid confusion. “Where’ve you been?”

“Around,” Damian says dismissively.

But when he notices just how _close_ Taylor is standing to Jon, he remembers what Danny had said– _Damian should go flirt with his boyfriend. Show Taylor that he’s taken, and all that–_ and Damian is either drunk enough or desperate enough to take the advice of the _frat boy_ he had met less than an hour ago.

Flirt. He can flirt. 

“Why? Did you miss me?” Damian adds. He brings his free hand to Jon’s chest and pushes up on his toes to kiss him.

“Are you drunk?” Jon mumbles against his lips.

“A little,” Damian admits. He swallows any reply that Jon may have had with another kiss.

Damian comes down off his toes, but leaves his hand on Jon’s chest, resting his head on Jon’s shoulder and curling into his side. He bites back a smug smile when he notices that Taylor had stepped back and away from Jon as they were kissing.

Jon looks at Damian with wary eyes. “Are you okay, D?” he asks cautiously.

His worry isn’t without reason. Damian is well aware that he isn’t acting much like his usual self– the excessive drinking and excessive touching are admittedly out of character. But with Taylor throwing herself at Jon, Damian feels obligated to be excessive, to stake his claim and remind Taylor that Jon had chosen _him,_ not her, and she could take care to remember that fact.

Damian opens his mouth to tell Jon that he has no need to worry, but Taylor cuts in before he can get a single word out.

“What’s with all the worry, Jonny? We’re at a party! Everybody is drunk!”

Jon offers her a quick smile, then returns his gaze to Damian.

“I’m fine,” Damian tells him. “Are you ready to leave?”

Once again, Taylor doesn’t seem to understand that she isn’t a part of the current conversation. “No, Jon!" she interjects. "You can’t leave yet. It’s not even ten-thirty!”

“Do you mind?” Damian snaps.

Taylor takes another step back, raising her hands in mock surrender. “Woah. What did I do?”

And _that_ is Damian’s breaking point. He’s never had the best temper, and Taylor has been getting on his nerves since he met her six months ago. She has no sense of boundaries, _especially_ when it comes to Jon, and Damian is beyond irritated with her obnoxious, drunken behavior. 

“Please, you know _exactly_ what you’ve been doing,” Damian says, composure finally slipping away and out of his grasp.

Jon places a hand on Damian’s shoulder, squeezing in a way that would be comforting if Damian wasn’t already at his wits’ end. “D? What are you–”

“Quit flirting with Jon,” Damian says, voice rigid and wire-sharp. 

“I wasn’t flirting with him!” Taylor shrieks. But the answer is too quick, too eager to defend, and her face is flushing with the embarrassment of being caught, red steadily creeping up and across her cheeks.

Damian scoffs. “You and I both know that you were. So knock it off.”

Taylor splutters. Her gaze darts around the room, like she’s physically searching for an excuse to give Damian, until she lands on Jon, her eyes wide and pleading for help.

Jon shifts from foot to foot. “Dames–” he starts.

Damian drops his arms from around Jon, taking a step back. “No,” he says simply.

Jon’s eyebrows shoot up. “No?”

“No, you don’t get to _defend_ her, _especially_ not after you’ve spent the past half hour letting her flirt with you.”

“I wasn’t letting her do _anything.”_

“So what happened then?” Damian says. “Did you _accidentally_ let her flirt with you, like you _accidentally_ let her kiss you on your birthday?”

“Oh my– Is _that_ what this is about?” Jon returns. Damian can tell that Jon is starting to get annoyed. His temper has never been much better than Damian’s own. “That wasn’t Taylor’s fault. She had no clue there was something going on between us back then!”

And that only makes Damian angrier. “Why are you so fucking insistent on defending her?”

“Because she’s my friend _,_ and you’re being a dick to her!”

Damian doesn’t even bother trying to hide his anger. He blatantly glares at Jon, staring with an intensity that he usually reserves for Gotham’s seediest characters or Talia’s League of Assassins agents. But his glare did little to phase Jon when they were kids, and it does little to phase him now.

“Um, Jon,” Taylor murmurs. Her voice is as near a whisper as one can be in a room this noisy. “It’s fine. I think I’m just gonna head out.”

“No. Stay,” Jon says, voice hard and gaze still trained on Damian. “We were just leaving.” And with that, he grabs Damian by the wrist, tugging him towards the exit.

Damian tries to pull his hand from Jon’s grip, but no matter how hard he pulls, Jon’s grip refuses to waver. Damian huffs. He’s definitely tapping into his super-strength, which is plain _unfair._

Jon keeps Damian in his grasp until they’re well out of the way of the fraternity house, walking down the side street that Damian had parked along earlier in the night. 

“Will you let go of me already?” Damian huffs. Jon drops his wrist, but says nothing. Damian scoffs. “What? Are you ignoring me now?”

“Damian,” Jon says evenly. 

And suddenly, Damian realizes that Jon isn’t just annoyed. He’s _mad._

Because Jon’s voice is _never_ that even. It usually carries a cheerful cadence, like he’s constantly on the brink of happy laughter.

And Jon almost never refers to Damian by his full name unless the moment is solemn and earnest– _I love you, Damian. So much–_ or it’s said in anger. Damian is usually _D_ or _Dames_ or _Dami._ Since they’ve started dating, even _b_ _abe_ isn’t all that uncommon. But he’s rarely _Damian_ to Jon. Tonight, with Jon introducing him to a dozen or so people as _Damian–_ that was probably the most he had heard Jon say his full name in _years._

“Look, I get that Taylor can be a lot sometimes, but she’s my friend,” Jon says. They’ve reached Damian’s car now. Damian walks around to the passenger’s side, but makes no move to climb in. He only looks over the car at Jon, gaze hardened. “You didn’t have to lay into her like that.”

“She was attempting to seduce you.”

“Attempting to– She was _flirting,_ Damian. Not asking me to sleep with her.”

Damian raises a brow, crossing his arms over his chest. “So you admit she was flirting with you?”

“She’s a flirty person!” Jon contends. “She flirts with everyone!”

“No, Jon, she flirts with _you._ It’s _always_ you. You’re just too naive to see it.”

“She was _literally_ flirting with that guy behind the bar when we ran into her.”

“And she _literally_ stopped flirting with him the second that she saw you,” Damian replies, shaping the word _literally_ with a bad imitation of Jon’s Midwestern drawl.

Jon runs an exasperated hand through his hair. “Even if Taylor was still into me–”

“She is,” Damian interrupts. “I saw it. Nick and Danny saw it.”

“Who the heck are Nick and Danny?” Jon runs another hand through his hair. “Never mind. Whatever. Maybe Taylor still likes me, but I’m _in love_ with _you._ I would never cheat on you with Taylor or anyone else. Have a little faith in me, Damian.”

No. _Oh no._ Jon does _not_ get to turn this around on _him._ “Do not make this about you,” he clips.

“How is this _not_ about me?” Jon cries.

“I trust you,” Damian says in answer. “I just don’t trust _her.”_

“You don’t have to trust her, but Taylor is my friend– _just_ my friend,” Jon adds when Damian narrows his eyes. “You could have at least been _nice_ to her.”

Damian snorts. He had been nice to every last one of Jon’s obscenely ordinary friends, tolerating their juvenile behavior and their brainless conversations. He had been as nice as he knew how to be, and he had done so _for Jon._ He had only _stopped_ being nice when Jon had ditched Damian to bask in the attention that Taylor had given him.

“Taylor is a _friend_ that you haven’t talked to in _months,”_ Damian says, sarcasm and condescension dripping from his voice. “And the second that she sees you again, she’s throwing herself at you. That last time that _I_ saw her, she was _kissing you._ Forgive me if I don’t like her.”

“That kiss was six months ago!” Jon cries, flailing his hands. “And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’ve been dating _you_ for those six months!”

“Maybe so, but _she_ still has feelings for you. I could _tell.”_

“Yeah,” Jon says, rolling his eyes. “Because _you’re_ the expert on feelings.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Damian snaps.

He knows exactly what it means– the Bats have never been the best with emotions, and Damian is far from the exception. Talia had spent a decade drilling it into his head that emotions are weaknesses that no Al Ghul should possess. Richard had had to spend years undoing Talia’s teachings, showing Damian that emotions are human nature and can be a tool in combat if wielded correctly. 

And while Damian has come a long way since he first came to Gotham, he is still a Bat. Even Richard, who is arguably the most well-adjusted of their family, had struggled to maintain a relationship with more emotional depth than a fling before finally settling down with Koriand’r. And Damian is far worse off than Richard.

But while Damian may understand what Jon is implying, he wants to hear Jon say it. He’s mad at Jon, and Jon is trying to push his own wrong doings onto Damian, so Damian is going to push him until he says something that he can seethe over.

“Gee, I don’t know,” Jon rags. “Maybe the fact that _I’ve_ had to do _everything_ first in this relationship? You kept me around for _months_ as a _fuck buddy_ before _I_ told _you_ that I had feelings for you, and then I had to pretty much pry it out of you that you had feelings for me too!” Jon complains, tossing his arms over his head.

Jon takes a step forward, leaning over the hood of the car in an attempt to better meet Damian’s eyes. _“I_ told _you_ I love you first,” he continues. “You don’t even hold my goddamn _hand_ unless I grab yours first.”

Damian’s hands curl into fists, nails digging into flesh.“Fine. Maybe I’m not as _expressive_ with my affections as you’d like. But anything that happened before we started dating is just as much _your_ fault as it is mine.” He mimics Jon, leaning forward. “If anything, it’s _more_ your fault. _You_ were the one who invited _me_ to your apartment that night with the League. _You_ were the one who started this whole mess.”

Jon laughs humorlessly. The sound is unsettling– cold and bitter when Damian is so used to it being warm and tender, full of love and comfort. This laugh is mirthless.

“Mess?” Jon asks. He gestures between himself and Damian. “Is that what this is to you?”

“You know that’s not what I meant. Quit playing the victim card,” Damian sneers.

“I’m not playing the victim card!”

“You are!” Damian cries. They’re full on shouting at each other now. _“I’m_ the one who should be upset right now! You spent the whole night flirting with your _girlfriend_ right in front of me!”

“Hold up, I was _not_ flirting with her,” Jon insists. “I’ll admit that she was flirting with me, but I was _not_ encouraging it.”

“You weren’t discouraging it either.”

“Jesus, Damian. Do you trust me _at all?”_

“I told you I do,” Damian huffs. Then, under his breath, he adds, “I _shouldn’t,_ but I do.”

“You shouldn’t?” Jon echoes. Stupid super-hearing. “What the hell does that mean?”

“You’re Kryptonian,” Damian says. From the way that Jon’s brows furrow, he suspects that this isn’t the answer that Jon was expecting.

Jon blinks. “What does that have to do with _anything?”_

“You asked if I trust you,” Damian says evenly. “I wouldn’t let you near me if I didn’t trust you.” 

Jon stares at Damian blankly, nose wrinkling as he tries to find Damian’s line of logic. It’s a habit that Damian usually finds endearing, but right now it’s plain annoying. 

Damian rolls his eyes, shaking his head incredulously. “Honestly, Jon. Do you even realize how powerful you are? You could rip the fucking moon from the sky if you so desired. Hurting me–  _ killing  _ me, even– would be child’s play. Yet I still let you near me, let you touch me. For Heaven’s sake, I have  _ sex  _ with you. All while knowing that you could snap my neck with more ease than I could snap a pencil in two.”

Jon blinks and takes a step back. His eyes, which had been alight with anger not a moment ago, are now full of hurt, looking at Damian like he doesn’t quite recognize him.

“How often–” Jon starts, then stops, swallows, and tries again. “How often do you worry about me hurting you?”

Damian shrugs. “Not enough,” he says.

Jon stares at Damian with palpable pain in his eyes. Damian hates it. He hates seeing Jon in pain, and even more, he hates knowing that _he_ was the one to cause that pain.

But Damian is still mad and still drunk, and this fight has already boiled over and escalated beyond what it should be, with Jon and Damian both airing out every grievance, every bitter feeling that they can find. So instead of apologizing, Damian twists the knife in Jon’s wound in a desperate attempt to rile him up– to make him mad again so that the hurt in his eyes will go away, even if it’s replaced by anger.

“You’re a goddamn security threat, Kent,” Damian clips. “I shouldn’t even let you _close_ to me.”

Jon’s voice is low, his eyes dark. “You really think that?”

“It’s a fact.”

“I’m not a _security threat.”_

“Of fucking course you are,” Damian sneers.

“I use my powers to _save_ people! I’m a _hero!”_

“You’re a  _ threat!” _

“ _I’m_ the threat?” Jon shouts. “I do _good things_ with my powers, Damian. I do _good._ I’ve never hurt anyone who wasn’t hurting others. I’ve never killed anyone, and I never will. I would _never_ go around murdering innocent people in cold blood, not like _you_ ha–” 

The word dies on Jon’s lips. His eyes go wide as he realizes what he’s just said.

“Oh my God. Dami, I– Dami, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. You _know_ I didn’t mean that,” Jon apologizes. “Rao, I– I’m so fucking sorry, Damian.” 

And now Damian is the one with hurt in his eyes. 

His anger slips away faster than he thought possible. He somehow feels overwhelming hurt and absolutely nothing at the same time. It’s like the pain of dying– excruciating, right up until the body shuts down and you feel nothing at all.

He can’t do anything but stare at Jon. Because Jon knows him better than anybody.

Jon is there when Damian wakes from the nightmares that force him to relive his kills, wrapping Damian in a steady embrace as he shakes with guilt, forehead damp with sweat and cheeks damp with tears.

Jon is the one who stays awake with Damian into the wee hours of the night, distracting him with junk food and bad movies on the nights that Damian can’t escape the vacant stares of his past victims, forced to watch their eyes glaze over every time he closes his own.

Jon is the one who cards a gentle hand through Damian’s hair, whispering sweet nothings as Damian desperately clings to him, overwhelmed with guilt and remorse for the lives that he had taken.

Jon knows the story of Damian’s first kill.

Damian had been barely four years old when Talia had thrust a sword into his hand and demanded he run it across the neck of a man, bound and gagged in the center of the room.

 _This man is a criminal, Damian,_ she had whispered in his ear, a hand on each of his shoulders. _You are doing the world a favor by ridding it of his filth. This is what you have been training for. This is your duty, as an Al Ghul._

Damian hadn’t even hesitated before slitting the man’s throat.

The memory has haunted Damian for years.

When he was sixteen, the memory had become a recurring nightmare. Every night for two months, his arm would move of its own accord, slitting the throat of a man whose eyes begged for mercy. Every night for two months, he would watch blood pour from an unknown man’s neck as Talia’s disembodied voice whispered praise.

Eventually, Damian had had enough. All those years ago, Talia had told him that his victim was a criminal. Although there is no such thing as justifying a kill, Damian thought that, perhaps, if he could find this man’s criminal record, the crimes he committed would legitimize his execution. Perhaps he was a rapist or a crazed murderer. Perhaps in taking his life, Damian had saved the lives of this man’s future victims. 

The idea toed the line of morally sound. It was far more similar to Jason’s brand of justice than Richard’s or Bruce’s, but it could, Damian thought, ease his guilt.

The League of Assassins had a secured database in which they kept files on each of their members. Those files included each member’s history in the League and documented each of their sanctioned kills. 

Damian needed to see his file.

It hadn’t been hard to hack the League. Tim had hacked their database near the start of the year. Damian had simply waited until he was in the Cave unsupervised, then used the backdoor hack that Tim had pre-programmed onto the Bat Computer. From there, he had only had to cross reference executions from twelve years prior and the name  _ Damian Al Ghul.  _

Damian, who was sixteen years old and had just barely started coming out to his family and friends, had nearly thrown up when he found that he had acted as an executioner to a man arrested for homosexuality.

Tim had found him nearly twenty minutes later, curled in the Bat Computer chair and openly sobbing into his folded arms. The file that detailed Damian’s first kill was still opened on the main monitor. Tim had taken one look at the screen, then wrapped his arms around Damian’s shoulders, pulling him into embrace.

Damian hadn’t even fought Tim. He had only pressed his face into his brother’s shoulder and continued to cry, grieving for a man he had never known. 

And Jon knows that story.

Jon knows that story and a dozen more like it, and he had still dared to bring up Damian’s past in a fight that had started over something as trivial as a sorority girl who had gotten a little too handsy with Jon.

Jon knows Damian better than anyone. But that only means Jon knows how to hurt Damian worse than anyone else possibly can.

“D, I’m so sorry,” Jon repeats. “D, Dami, I– Please say something. Please.”

Damian silently opens the door to the Bentley, climbing into the passenger’s seat without a word.

Jon scrambles in after him, not even bothering to adjust Damian’s driver’s seat to better accommodate his ridiculously long legs. He twists to face Damian, bringing a gentle hand to his face and wiping away tears that Damian hadn’t even noticed he was shedding. 

“Damian–”

Damian ducks his head out of Jon’s reach. “Just drive.”

“Dami, I’m–”

“Just _drive,”_ Damian repeats. He presses his head against the cool glass of the car window– the furthest he can get from Jon in these close quarters. 

Neither of them say anything for a moment. Jon fiddles with the car, adjusting the seat and the mirrors, then finally turns on the car’s ignition. He then clears his throat. “I shouldn’t have said what I said,” he says quietly. “I know I can’t take it back, but I–”

“Jesus _Christ,_ Jonathan. Will you shut up and drive the fucking car already?”

Jon’s hands grip the steering wheel tight enough that Damian worries he may snap it. His next words are steely, the tenderness in his voice all but gone. “I’m trying to apologize to you, you know?”

Damian does know, but Damian is hurt. He doesn’t  _ want  _ an apology. He wants to get past his hurt, and to feel anger instead. He wants to be mad at Jon. He wants to allow his anger to stew, to simmer until it boils over in the form of words he had sworn to never say, breaking promises he had sworn to keep.

Just as Jon had broken his promises to Damian– whispered promises that Damian is a good person. That the lives he’d taken hadn’t been his fault. That he wasn’t the weapon that Talia had groomed him to be.

That he wasn’t a murderer.

_I would never go around murdering innocent people in cold blood, not like you ha–_

The words ring in Damian’s ears. He squeezes his eyes shut, as if the darkness will drown out Jon’s voice in his head.

Jon sighs. “You know, Damian,” he says quietly. “Sometimes you make it really hard to love you.”

“Then why do you bother trying?” Damian snaps. 

Jon sighs again, finally putting the car into drive and pulling away from the curb. “Right now, I’m not so sure.”

Jon’s voice is barely above a whisper. Damian isn’t quite sure whether he was supposed to hear him or not. Regardless of the intention, the words twist Damian’s stomach in knots.

The rest of the drive is silent. Neither says anything, even as Jon drives straight past his apartment– where Damian had planned to spend the night– and drives instead to the nearest Zeta Tube.

Damian doesn’t make a sound as he climbs out of his own car and steps onto the Zeta platform, punching in the coordinates for Gotham. But as the Zeta prepares for transport, Zeta beams humming around him, moving through the pipelines and into the platform under his feet, Damian presses his hand against his mouth in a desperate attempt to stifle the sound as he chokes on a frustrated sob.


	3. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dick is the voice of reason.

Damian wakes to someone pounding on his door. It doesn’t mesh well with the pounding in his head.

He groans, pulling his pillow over his head in a weak attempt to drown out the noise. It does little to help, and with another low groan, Damian pushes the pillow aside and sits up, swinging his legs over the side of his bed. His stomach jars at the movement, and he squeezes his eyes shut to quell his queasiness. 

He’s hungover, Damian realizes belatedly.

And suddenly the events of the previous night come rushing back to him: 

The party.

Taylor. 

Nick and Danny and their seemingly endless supply of cheap vodka and bad advice.

Jon.

_ You know Damian, sometimes you make it really hard to love you. _

_ Then why do you bother trying? _

_ Right now, I’m not so sure. _

Damian’s breath hitches. A sob catches in the back of his throat, and his mind reels with thoughts of Jon:

Jon, who’s sunshine incarnate and a hero in the truest sense of the word.

Jon, who likes bad movies and video games and telling terrible jokes that somehow never fail to make Damian smile.

Jon, who is the best thing to have ever happened to Damian. And who very well may have broken up with him last night.

Damian digs his fingers into his duvet, twisting the fabric between his fingers in an effort to ground himself. He bites back tears and forces himself to take in steady, even breaths.

The part of his brain that has never quite been able to shake Talia’s training–  _ abuse,  _ he reminds himself– scolds his weakness. He’s becoming soft. He became too attached to someone too good and too pure. Someone too wholesome to truly love a difficult, brash ex-assassin whose past is riddled with sin. 

This is no one’s fault but his own, Talia’s voice insists. And one’s own mistakes are never worth shedding tears over. Tears are a sign of weakness, a flaw no Al Ghul should possess.

But he loves Jon. He loves Jon so much that it hurts. And knowing that while he may love Jon, Jon may no longer love him– that pain is excruciating. 

Jon has always been a constant in life, at his side since he was thirteen years old. For ten years, Jon has been his best friend and his partner in fighting crime, and somewhere along the way, he became the man that Damian loves. 

Their story is one that has spanned over a decade already. Has it finally expired? Has Jon finally realized, after all this time, that Damian simply isn’t worth the trouble he causes?

But how, Damian wonders, could Jon throw away ten years so easily?

He reaches to snatch his phone from where he had left it on his bedside table the night prior. He scrolls through the notifications on his home-screen, not even bothering to read the contact names. He only looks for the string of blue heart emojis that Jon had typed next to his contact name not long after they began dating– Jon had been comically offended when he found that his contact name in Damian’s phone was simply  _ Jon Kent.  _ Apparently, Damian was  _ Dames  _ with three green heart emojis.

Damian scrolls through his notifications from end to end. There’s nothing from Jon.

No calls. No texts. Not even a fucking Snapchat.

But then there’s another knock at Damian’s front door, and he finds himself wondering… Could that be Jon?

It feels desperate and borderline undignified, but Damian bolts out of bed and rushes across his apartment. He hurries through his living room, beelining for the front door, with enough haste that he startles Alfred the Cat from where he’s lounging on the back of Damian’s couch.

He throws open the front door, grasping at his last few tendrils of hope–

And immediately deflates.

“Hi, Uncle Damian!”

Standing in his doorway, is not Jon, but four-year-old Mar’i Grayson and her father.

Damian curses internally. He had completely forgotten that Dick and Mar’i were in Gotham for the weekend. 

Batman had requested Nightwing’s help on a Gotham cartel case that was bleeding into Blüdhaven. Dick had brought Mar’i along to Wayne Manor, and claimed that she was very disappointed to learn that Damian was in Metropolis for the weekend. Damian has always had a bit of a soft spot for his niece, so he had agreed to be back in Gotham by noon on Sunday in order to grab lunch with Dick and Mar’i before they returned to Blüdhaven.

A quick glance at the clock on the wall behind him tells Damian that it is, in fact, already noon. Emotional exhaustion and the copious alcohol he had consumed the previous night must have kept him asleep longer than usual.

“Hey, Little D,” Dick says with a crooked smile. He raises a brow. “You planning on wearing that to lunch?”

Damian instinctively looks down at himself. He knows that he must look like a mess, with sleep-tousled hair, clad in only socks, pajama pants–

And Jon’s stupid Met U sweatshirt. 

Just like that, the tears that Damian has kept in a vice-like grip finally twist free.

Dick’s smile disappears the instant that Damian starts to cry. “Damian?” he asks. “What’s going on? Are you okay?” His voice is firm and even, his tone practiced. It’s a voice that Damian recognizes, though it’s usually distorted by the static of their comms. It’s Dick’s Nightwing voice, the one he uses when a mission goes wrong and he has to force himself to remain calm.

“I’m fine,” Damian sniffs. He wipes vigorously at his eyes, but new tears appear in the wake of those he swipes away. He isn’t sure whether he’s simply crying too hard to keep up with, or if seeing the sleeve of Jon’s sweatshirt each time he wipes at his eyes makes him cry harder. Both options feel utterly pathetic. 

“What’s going on?” Dick repeats. He steps into Damian’s apartment, closing the door behind him. Damian doesn’t have the energy to snap at him for coming in uninvited. 

“I think he’s sad, Daddy,” Mar’i offers, trailing at his side.

“I think you might be right, princess,” Dick replies. “You want to tell me  _ why  _ you’re sad, Little D?”

Damian doesn’t answer. He can’t quite bring himself to say it just yet. 

“Okay,” Dick sighs. He points towards Damian’s kitchen table. “Go sit. I’ll make tea.”

Ten minutes later, Mar’i is settled on the couch with  _ Sofia the First  _ playing on Damian’s TV, and Dick and Damian are seated around the kitchen table, each with their hands wrapped around a steaming mug of tea.

Talking around warm tea is a tradition of sorts in the Wayne family. Alfred believes that a quiet chat around a warm mug of tea is a universal remedy of sorts. Most Wayne’s aren’t quite as steadfast in this belief as the old butler, but the habit has become ingrained in them over the years. 

Damian takes a long sip of his tea. When he brings the mug back to the table, Dick is staring at him with concern in his eyes. “You want to tell me what’s going on?” he asks gently.

Damian’s gaze falls to his mug. He watches the steam rise from the tea, hot air tickling his face. Time ticks by slowly, seconds that feel like minutes passing before he finally whispers, “I think Jon and I broke up.”

Saying it makes it all the more real, and God, reality  _ hurts.  _ Tears start to spill again. Damian doesn’t even bother wiping them away anymore.

“What?” Dick asks. He sounds genuinely surprised. “Why? What happened?”

Damian relays the story as best he can. He tells Dick about Jon dragging him to the party, about running into Taylor and snapping at her to stay away from Jon. He tells him about the fight that transpired. 

“He–” Damian sniffs. “He called me a murderer,” he says, voice small.

“He  _ what?”  _ Dick cries, loud enough that Mar’i turns her head to look back at them.

“He apologized as soon as he said it,” Damian explains. “Or, tried to. I wouldn’t let him.”

“I don’t blame you. That’s… Damian, you know that’s not true, right? Nothing you did in your time with the League was your fault. It was–”

“It was Ra’s and Talia’s fault, I know,” Damian interrupts. “Everyone says that, but–”

“But nothing,” Dick insists. “It wasn’t your fault. Period. End of story. Okay?”

Damian says nothing, only takes another sip of his tea.

“I mean it, Damian. You are not to blame  _ at all,”  _ Dick stresses. “Jon was out of line with what he said.”

Damian brings a finger to trace the rim of his mug. “Maybe,” he allows. “He only said it because I kept pushing him, though. I kept trying to make him mad.”

“Damian, you need to stop blaming yourself every time something goes wrong,” Dick says, brow furrowing.  _ “You’re _ not at fault for what  _ Jon  _ said.”

Damian shakes his head. “I called him a security threat,” he admits quietly. “I told him that he was dangerous, that I shouldn’t let him near me.” He squeezes his eyes shut as unshed tears fight their way out. “I didn’t mean it. I only said it because I knew it would hurt him.” 

He looks up at Dick with glossy eyes. “What kind of person does that make me, Richard?” he asks, voice nothing more than a strained whisper.

“A normal one,” Dick assures. He reaches across the table to lay a comforting hand on Damian’s arm. “Everyone says things that they don’t mean when they’re mad.”

“I think Jon may have meant what he said.”

“Damian, you are  _ not  _ a murderer–”

“Technically, I am,” Damian interjects. “I _have_ killed people.”

“You were a  _ kid. _ You didn’t know what you were doing.” Dick lowers his voice, sparing a quick glance at Mar’i to ensure that her attention is still on the TV. “For God’s sake, you were  _ Mar’i’s age  _ when Talia first forced you to kill,” he whispers. “Would you blame  _ Mar’i  _ if she were coerced into killing someone?”

Damian twists to look over at Mar’i. His niece is nestled in the corner of the couch, with Alfred the Cat curled on her lap. She absentmindedly strokes the old cat’s fur, wide green eyes captivated by the singing princesses that are dancing across Damian’s TV screen.

Damian tries to imagine Mar’i with a sword in her hand. The image is gut-wrenchingly wrong.

“No,” Damian admits, turning back around to face Dick. “No, I wouldn’t.”

“Then why should you be any different?” Dick asks.

Because he was born and bred to be a living weapon. Because by the time he was eight years old, he was blood-thirsty and eager to kill.

Because unlike Mar’i or Dick or  _ Jon,  _ Damian has never been able to simply _be_ good. He has to _try_ to be good, to _resist_ the urge to kill.

Damian doesn’t say any of this to Dick. He only sighs and pushes away his self-doubt and self-loathing as a problem for another day. 

“The rest of what Jon said, though,” Damian persists. “It had truth to it. He said I was bad with emotions, and that he’s had to do everything first in our relationship.”

Which is technically true. Jon _had_ been the first to confess his feelings to Damian.

Though, Jon didn't know that Damian had been planning to ask him on a proper date that next morning. He would have done so had he not watched Taylor kiss Jon that night.

And Jon _had_ said  _ I love you _ first. 

But Damian is almost certain that _he_ had thought it first.

He had realized that he loved Jon not three weeks after they had started dating. He had kept the realization to himself, however.  Three weeks together was scarcely any time. He wouldn't risk scaring Jon away by moving so fast, so soon after they'd finally gotten together.

The first time that Damian had genuinely considered telling Jon that he loves him had been exactly one month after they had started dating. It was their one-month anniversary– a milestone that Damian hadn’t even known some people celebrated– but Jon was a romantic at heart. He had taken Damian flying, and when he landed on top of a seemingly random Metropolis skyscraper, there was a rooftop picnic set up and waiting.

Damian had almost told Jon that he loves him that night. He hadn’t. He had worried that one month was still too soon, and the fear and insecurity that Jon might not return his feelings had kept him from voicing the words.

But he had almost said it.

“Before I left,” Damian continues. His voice is meek, quiet– everything that Damian is not. “Jon said that he wasn’t sure why he bothered trying to love me. What’s to say that isn’t true too?”

Pity washes across Dick’s face. “Damian…”

Dick sounds sad and sympathetic, and Damian absolutely hates it. He straightens in his seat and wipes away stray tears with the sleeve of his sweatshirt–  _ Jon’s  _ sweatshirt. He really needs to change out of this damn sweatshirt. 

“It’s fine,” Damian says decisively. “What’s done is done.”

Dick gives him a sad smile. “You’re allowed to be sad about it, though.”

Damian knows that– he really does– but he doesn’t  _ want  _ to be sad about it. It hurts too much, and that hurt is too overwhelming. He’d rather push it away and wait to deal with it all after time has passed and his pain has dulled. When he feels like he can breathe again.

“Have you… talked to Jon yet?” Dick asks carefully. When Damian shakes his head, he asks, “Are you going to?”

Damian shrugs. Maybe. Eventually. Jon still has his car. He has to get it back at some point.

“I think you need to talk to him. Sooner rather than later,” Dick suggests. “From what you’re telling me, it doesn’t sound like Jon  _ broke up  _ with you. It sounds like you guys got in a nasty fight and need to do the ol’ kiss and make up.”

Dick takes a sip of his tea, then smiles at Damian over the edge of his mug. “You’ve always been a bit dramatic, Baby Bat. I’m not saying this fight was nothing, but you might want to actually talk with Jon before you start filing for divorce.”

Damian rolls his eyes. “We’re not  _ married.” _

Dick shrugs. “Yeah, but you’ve been acting like an old married couple since you were kids.” He laughs, then leans back across the table, once again placing a hand on Damian’s arm. “Just talk to him, kiddo. I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think.”

Damian nods, though his eyes go to the eerily silent cell phone laying next to his mug. It’s well past noon now, and he still hasn’t heard from Jon. 

Until he has a concrete reason to believe otherwise, Damian is convinced that Jon has finally realized that Damian is more a burden than he will ever be a boyfriend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had originally planned for Chapter 3 to be the last chapter, but then Chapter 3 ended up suuuper lengthy, so I divided it into two parts. 
> 
> I promise the final update won't take as long as long as this one did, though! Thank you for your patience, I love you all.


	4. Back to the Start

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The make-up to Damian and Jon's not-quite break-up.

Damian goes out on patrol that night. He shouldn’t– had told Dick that he wouldn’t. But he does.

He’s distracted through most of his patrol, Jon’s words reverberating through his head, and worry and regret gnawing at the back of his mind. When he does pull himself out of his head long enough to intervene, cornering thugs in the same alleyways that they use to corner helpless victims, he fights with turmoil. He refuses to pull his punches. Even when the petty criminals are down and disarmed, Damian continues to fight with an ardor that would have gotten him benched for the night had Batman or Nightwing been there to play witness.

But it’s a slow night. One attempted burglary. A handful of alleyway muggings. Gotham thugs are nothing if not predictable.

Damian is nearly finished with his patrol route, and Gotham’s seedier parts are nearly behind him. He’s starting to encroach on the admittedly gentrified area of downtown, where his apartment complex stands amongst overpriced coffee shops and new-age yoga studios. There’s rarely any criminal activity in this area, but Damian usually remains alert until his patrol route is completed in full. 

Tonight, though, his priorities are skewed. He’s too preoccupied, and his focus begins to slip as his apartment complex comes into view.  He swings from rooftop to rooftop, wondering if his phone will have any missed calls from Jon when he returns home. He retracts his grapple line, letting himself fall for a moment before firing at the next closest building.

As soon as his grapple catches on the roof’s edge, a sword comes down and slices through the line.

Damian’s eyes go wide as he starts to freefall from at least fifteen-hundred feet up. His hand flies to his utility belt, fingers scrambling for his spare grappler. He fumbles the grappler out of his belt and fires near-blind, desperately hoping the grapple line finds hold before he crashes into the fast-approaching ground.

The grapple hook catches on a nearby street lamp seconds before it would have been too late. The sudden stop pulls Damian’s shoulder from his socket, and he shouts. 

Damian grimaces, breathing hard as he retracts his grapple, and his feet drop onto solid ground. He then brings a hand to his dislocated shoulder, clutching it to his side while he scans the edge of the rooftop where his assailant had been waiting. 

His grapple line had been severed with a sword, of that much he’s certain. Only a handful of his adversaries use swords. It could have been Deathstroke, but the more likely contender–

League of Assassins agents begin to drop from the surrounding buildings, crowding Damian on the abandoned side-street where his freefall had landed him. Another one of his mother’s tests.

He makes to pop his shoulder back in so that he can fight properly, but these assassins are quick. Before he can so much as get a good grip on his shoulder, a sword flies through the air, straight for his throat. His hand flies from his shoulder to block the blade with an armored gauntlet. 

The fight only gets worse from there. With at least twenty League agents aiming frontal attacks at him, Damian is barely able to block their lethal blows, let alone take pause to fix his shoulder. His right hand hangs uselessly at his side as he blocks and parries with his Katana held limply in his left. His fighting is completely defensive. There are too many opponents for him to launch an offensive attack.

He dodges as a sword comes for his neck, but it still manages to nick him just above the collar of his uniform. The same sword comes back around to take another swing at him. He backs away, only to be knocked down from behind by an assassin waiting at his back.

He pushes himself up, blocking incoming attacks with his Katana, but he’s heavily outnumbered, and his opponents are starting to crowd him. He’s knocked down again, and his Katana is kicked from his hands. He tries to stand, but a foot on his chest holds him down. The assassin above him raises his sword–

And is suddenly tackled to the side by a streak of red and blue.

“You stay away from him!” Jon– Superboy– shouts, pushing the assassin into the side of the nearest building. The momentum causes a few of the building’s bricks to shake from their mortar, toppling onto the unlucky assassin’s head. He crumples to the ground, and Jon turns to face the rest of the League troupe, eyes glowing red.

The remaining League agents raise their swords at Jon and charge. Damian takes advantage of the distraction and pops his shoulder into place. He grunts, then rotates his shoulder a few times to ensure he still has full mobility. Then he launches himself back into battle.

Now that he’s fighting with Jon at his side, it isn’t hard to gain the upper-hand. The League agents may still outnumber them ten-to-one, but they obviously did not come prepared to fight a Kryptonian.

Jon uses his heat vision to melt their swords down to nothing. Without their swords, they have to rely on their close-combat skills– skills that Damian has outmatched since he was a child. Between Damian’s close-combat prowess and Jon’s pure power, it isn’t long until the street is littered with unconscious League of Assassins agents. It’s eerily similar to the night of Damian and Jon’s first kiss.

As soon as the final assassin falls, Jon is rushing towards Damian. “Are you okay?” he asks frantically. He blinks in quick succession, and the red glow in his eyes begins to dissipate, revealing that startling shade of blue that somehow manages to stare straight into Damian’s soul.

“What are you doing here?” Damian says in lieu of responding.

“Your heartbeat,” Jon replies. He still sounds a little frantic. “It just started going haywire. I figured you were on patrol, and–” He takes a deep breath, calming himself. “I got worried, D.”

“Why?” The question slips out, and Damian isn’t even quite sure what exactly it is that he’s asking. Why was Jon listening to his heartbeat? Why was Jon worried? Why does Jon care?

Jon’s brow furrows. “‘Cause I love you,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I know we’re kind of fighting right now, but I’m still gonna save you if you need saving.”

Damian knows his line. He’s supposed to snap at Jon, lie and say that he didn’t need saving. But he’s too preoccupied with the fact that  _ Jon said that he loves him. _

Jon has said it before, dozens, maybe even hundred of times. But hearing it right then, when Damian had genuinely started to believe that he had lost the privilege to be loved by Jon, is like hearing it for the first time again.

“You love me?” The question once again slips out of its own accord. 

The worry lines in Jon’s brow deepens. “Of course I love you,” he says. “Did you hit your head? Concussion? Memory loss? Do you know what year it is? Here, how many fingers am I holding up?”

Damian bats his hand away. “I didn’t hit my head,” he grouses. He bites the inside of his lips. “But I thought… Last night…”

Jon’s shoulders sag. His face droops, worry lines melting away to reveal dismal blue eyes, stormy with regret. “I said a lot of things that I shouldn’t have last night,” Jon admits quietly. “But, D, I still love you. I’m sorry if I made you think otherwise.”

He steps forward and takes Damian’s hands in his, threading their fingers together. Damian lets him, if only because he’s still reeling at Jon’s words. Jon takes a deep breath, meeting Damian’s gaze– which he finds with surprising accuracy, considering Damian is still wearing his mask– on the exhale.

“I don’t even know where to start apologizing,” Jon says. “I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to punch me in the face. I’d let you. I wouldn’t even keep my invulnerability up. Total freebie.”

A smile tugs at the corner of Damian’s mouth. Jon returns his smile, squeezing at his hand. Damian squeezes right back.

“I shouldn’t have brought up your past,” Jon says abruptly, solemnity stealing his smile away. “I was mad and saying things I didn’t mean or believe.” He shakes his head and takes a step closer to Damian. “I know you know this already, but I need you to hear me say it: Anything you did when you were in the League was not your fault. Ra’s and Talia are the only ones to blame. 

“You’ve come so far since then and done so much good. You’ve overcome so much in your life and you’re so strong– stronger than I could ever even hope to be. I’m so insanely proud of you, D, and I love you so, so much.”

Damian lets go of Jon’s hands and wraps him in a hug, ducking his head to press against his shoulder. “I love you too,” he murmurs. “And I’m sorry.” And isn’t that a rarity, him apologizing. “I’m sorry for picking a fight. I’m sorry for what I said. I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean it at all. You’re not a threat. You’re not dangerous. You– I–” He sniffles. 

“Dames? Are you crying?”

“No,” Damian lies. He sighs, pulling back from Jon just enough to look into his eyes. “I just… I thought you were done. I thought we were over.”

Jon shakes his head, pulling Damian back against his chest. He cards a hand through his hair. “No,” he whispers. “No. Never.”

They stay like that for a moment, finding comfort in each other, trapped in their own little world where only the two of them exist. It’s rare that Damian is this lax when they’re uniform. He’s usually quite adamant that Robin and Superboy avoid any signs that they could be a couple, lest someone use their relationship to connect the dots between Robin and Superboy and Damian Wayne and Jonathan Kent.

But he needs this right now. Needs Jon right now.

When Damian finally lifts his head from Jon’s chest, Jon plants a lingering kiss on his forehead. “I really didn’t mean any of what I said,” he murmurs. “None of it.”

“None of it?” Damian echoes. “Even your complaints about my lack of affections?”

“No, I–”

“I was going to ask you out,” Damian blurts, tripping over his words in a rush to get them out. He feels his cheeks tinge red, but he feels that Jon has a right to know.

Jon blinks. “Huh?”

“I was going to ask you out,” Damian repeats, slower this time. “On a proper date.” He pauses, sighing. “On your twenty-first birthday, Kathy convinced me to, in her words, grow a pair and make things official.”

Jon blinks again. “Oh,” he says, quite eloquently. “Why… didn’t you?”

“We were drunk, and I didn’t want you to think that that was the only reason I was asking,” Damian explains. “I had planned to ask you that next morning, but…”

“But then Taylor kissed me,” Jon finishes, a look of understanding dawning on his face. 

Damian nods. His post-battle adrenaline must still be coursing through his veins because as much as he hates talking about feelings and the like, he adds, “And saying I love you first. I was planning to say it. You simply beat me to it.”

“Really?” Jon asks, voice caught somewhere between surprised and giddy.

Damian gives him another nod. “I’ve loved you for a long time, Jon. Long before we ever said it to one another. Maybe even before we started dating.”

Jon’s smile widens. He looks every bit the part of a lovesick fool. “You know you were my first crush? Back when we were kids?”

Now Damian is smiling too, not even bothering to hide it. 

“I mean, I didn’t realize it back then,” Jon continues. “I was ten. I don’t think I even knew I  _ could  _ have a crush on another boy. But looking back? I would alway get so excited to hang out with you, but I’d get so tongue-tied and flustered when I found myself alone with you.” Jon’s hands find Damian’s waist and tug him closer. “So, I know it’s not a competition or anything, but I’ve  _ like-liked _ you since I was  _ ten.” _

He brings one hand up to the back of Damian’s head, burying his fingers in his hair. “It’s always been you, D,” he whispers, leaning down. Damian pushes up onto his toes, meeting him halfway. Grayson did say to _do the ol’ kiss and make up._

They kiss is tentatively at first, like neither is sure whether the other wants to be kissed. Then Jon must realize that they’re being ridiculous, and his lips move against Damian’s with more surety. Damian follows his lead, and they fall back into familiar territory, kissing the way they’ve kissed countless times before.

Too soon, though, Jon breaks the kiss, his hand leaving Damian’s hair to rub sheepishly at the back of his own neck. “I know we already did the I’m sorries,” he says, “but, uh, I talked to Kathy this morning. I told her about what happened, and she chewed me out about the whole Taylor thing.”

Jon sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I knew Taylor was flirting with me, but I thought that since  _ I  _ wasn’t flirting with  _ her  _ it was fine.” He shakes his head. “Kathy told me that all I was doing was leading Taylor on and pissing you off.”

Damian snorts. “She’s not wrong.”

Jon cracks a small smile. “Sorry I’m an idiot?” he offers. 

Damian snorts again. “Apology accepted,” he says. His hands sneak up to loop around Jon’s neck, and Jon is quick to duck his head, once again capturing Damian's lips.

This kiss is slow and sweet, and Damian savors every moment of it. His hand moves to cradle the side of Jon’s face simply to reassure himself that Jon is  _ here _ and  _ his.  _

They only pull apart when someone behind them groans– a fallen League of Assassins agent picking himself up. Jon super-speeds towards him, and is back in Damian’s arms before Damian can so much as blink. Damian spares a glance at the assassin and finds that he’s once again unconscious. 

Damian frowns. They really need to stop making out in front of unconscious League of Assassins agents. It’s becoming somewhat of a habit.

“You know,” Jon says, pulling Damian out of his head. He leans down to peck Damian on the lips. “If I remember correctly, the last time we beat up a bunch of League of Assassins baddies, we went back to my apartment after…” He trails off, smirking slightly.

Damian gives him a coy smile, wrapping his arms tighter around Jon’s neck, pulling himself closer. “Are you propositioning me, Superboy?”

“Not at all, Robin,” Jon replies. He tightens his hold on Damian’s waist. “I’m just saying that this time, we’re going to  _ your  _ apartment.”

With that, he shoots off into the sky, Damian secure in his arms.

Damian bites back a laugh with a smile, watching Jon, his hair blowing back as the wind rushes by them, an easy smile lingering on his face. “I love you,” Damian says gently. And just to double check, he adds, “You know that, right?”

“Of course I do. And I love you too,” Jon replies, voice soft. He then grins at Damian, mischief dancing in his eyes. “In fact, I’m about to  _ show you  _ just how much I love you, babe.”

It’s an absolutely atrocious line, but Damian tilts his head back and allows himself to laugh, completely uninhibited. 

Because Jon is an idiot who is far too tall and smiles too often and tells the stupidest jokes that Damian has ever heard–

But Jon is  _ his  _ idiot. And Damian wouldn’t have it any other way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was very dramatic and extremely cheesy, but I hope it was at least somewhat worth the wait.
> 
> And while this is the end for this story, I have much more planned for this series, so stay tuned!
> 
> Feel free to hit me up on Tumblr: [nightwingbb](https://nightwingbb.tumblr.com/)


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